“Let me come with you,” Katarina called out. “Perhaps I can help.” In all the time she had known him he had never allowed her—or anyone else—to enter his laboratory.
Anton stared at her, as if he were trying to reach some sort of decision. The familiar gave an impatient tug at his robe, staring balefully at Katarina. “No,” the wizard said finally. “It’s best you stay here.”
When she started to protest, he lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it briefly. “This once, Katarina, obey me.”
She touched the back of her other hand to his shaven cheek; the slight roughness—and the sharp male scent of him—felt reassuring. “Of course. Good luck.”
A glowing ball of light rose from his hand and preceded him down the stairway. The familiar scuttled after him. The door swung shut behind them and the lock snicked into place.
There was a noise from above, as if one of the shutters in one of the upstairs rooms had opened. Katarina looked up to see a shadow detach itself from a darkened side-door on the landing. It glided soundlessly towards the balustrade, a movement that was so swift and silent that it was as if the shadow was drifting through her mind rather than the house, as if she was dreaming its brief presence.
Instinctively, she turned to block the door Anton had taken.
The shadow-shape leapt from the balustrade and landed lightly in front of her. It stood there for a moment, regarding her; a tall muscular man-shape, clothed in black eyes gleaming at her out of a dark mask. And on one sleeve the scorpion symbol of Khaine, god of murder.
An assassin. If Anton Freiwald could not be taken alive then the graf wanted to be very sure of his death.
On the man’s waist Katarina saw an amulet that bore the Guild’s insignia. To one with her training, it practically writhed with spell-charge. Already it had brought the assassin this far—through the shield and past Anton’s other warding spells. If enough of the wizards had poured enough of their power into it then perhaps it might be strong enough to take him safely down to the laboratory itself.
“Stand aside,” the assassin said. “My contract is for your master’s life, not yours.”
“You mean Anton Freiwald, the wizard?” Katarina said quickly. “But he’s outside. With the guards.”
The assassin’s eyes shifted to the side for a fraction of a second and, taking her chance, Katarina sprang at him, both hands clenched, aiming low.
The assassin twisted aside easily and, tripping Katarina as she went past him, sent her toppling to the floor. Shaken but unhurt, Katarina got quickly back to her feet but the assassin was gone—and the door to the lower level hung open.
She shouted down into the spiral stairway, but her voice was lost in the gloom. She tried again, calling out as loudly as she could, but again the darkness absorbed her words, like a sponge soaking up drops of water.
There was no torch to light her way and she was afraid. Afraid of the spells that guarded the place, afraid of what was down there. But Anton Freiwald—her protector, her lover—was in danger. She stepped forward.
With her foot poised above the first step, she heard a voice—Anton’s. “Back,” the voice said sternly. “This level is forbidden to all.”
For a moment, she thought he was coming back up the stairs. But then she realized it was merely the taboo spell speaking in her mind. The first of Anton’s barriers. She could feel its magical pressure in her head.
“Anton, I’m trying to help you,” she protested. She tried to move her foot. But the muscles in her legs had locked. No matter how hard she tried, they wouldn’t move.
Katarina strained again and again to take that first step, to break through the spell, but it was as if the lower half of her body was paralyzed. The harder she tried, the louder the voice in her head became, commanding, threatening, until it was a shout echoing inside her skull. She lifted her hands to her ears, trying to shut it out. It rose in volume, became a thunderous roar, blotting out thought.
Swaying on her feet, eyes tightly closed, she summoned her own image of Anton. The lean, muscular body; the grey eyes, the long silken hair. His lips were on hers, his arms around her. She could feel the warmth of him against her.
The love she felt for him was as bright and sharp in her mind as a knife-blade. It brought her the strength she needed to break through the spell, the strength to disobey him.
The cold chilled through the sole of her boot as she placed it on the first step. The wizard’s voice dropped, until it was only a shout once again. Then, a second step, a third. All she could hear now was a shrill whisper.
She continued downwards. As she passed the first turn in the stairs, the voice faded completely.
Below her, the darkness stirred. From out of it, a small questing head appeared, attached to a long serpentine neck. Its teeth were bared and its yellow eyes glowed like tiny amber coals. The head regarded her for a moment. Then it began moving steadily up towards her.
Katarina halted, but did not retreat. The stairs were the only way down to Anton’s laboratory. She had to get past this creature. She knew what it was; Anton had talked to her of his defences. It was not a living creature, but a reflection of her own inner fears, given shape—but not substance—by Anton’s spell. It could kill her, but only through terror of her own making.
Knowing what it was, she told herself firmly, would be enough. She could pass it. Shutting her eyes, she put her foot onto the next step.
There was a hiss of rage and the scrabbling of claws on stone. An acrid stench drifted up to her nostrils. The sound of laboured breathing was amplified by the narrowness of the stairway.
Down the stairs she went, not stopping, knowing that if she did she was lost, feeling her way, her hands on the cold, clammy stone. At any moment she kept expecting to feel that small mouth on her body. But the creature was only her own fear given form. She held that knowledge in her mind like a talisman as she descended.
The air grew chill. She had lost count of the turns now. Her feet and hands were becoming numb from cold. The stairway seemed to go on forever.
Abruptly, one foot jarred on stone that was well above where the next step should have been. She stepped forward, knowing she had reached the bottom.
There was a scraping sound and something brushed against her leg. Then she felt a sudden sharp pain as teeth closed on her ankle. Her heart seemed to stop and her eyes came open.
A little light seeped down the stairway behind her, enough to dimly illuminate the narrow corridor that led to the single door: the entrance to Anton’s laboratory.
She saw the mind-monster staring at her. But it was far away at the end of the long corridor, coiled in front of the door. Its outline had lost definition, and the colour had leached out of its yellow eyes. As she watched, it finally faded out altogether, blending back into the darkness it had come from.
Katarina’s mouth was dust-dry. Her breathing was coming in short, shallow gasps. That bite had felt so real that her ankle still throbbed. Looking down, she saw something small and pallid moving at her feet; its eyes glittered in the dim light.
The familiar. She kicked at the creature and it scuttled away on hands and feet, finally halting at the far end of the corridor, beyond the door to the laboratory, well out of her reach.
In the gloom it was barely visible, but the faint reflections from its eyes told her that it was staring back at her. Faintly, in the quiet, she could hear its breathing.
Drops of blood smeared her hand as she bent and massaged her ankle. The creature repelled her. Even the thought of its touch filled her with disgust. It was a homunculus, created by Anton in his laboratory to serve as his familiar. Despite its vaguely human form, it was little more intelligent than an animal. It must have attacked her simply because she had descended to this forbidden level. Normally it never left its master’s side. Had it been driven outside the laboratory when the assassin attacked?
Moving cautiously, trying to keep one eye on the door and the other on the familiar, Katarina mad
e her way down the corridor. Additional light seeped out from around the door frame—but the room beyond the thick wooden door seemed silent. All Katarina could hear was her own laboured breathing and an occasional muted sound from the familiar.
The stillness was shattered abruptly: a scream rang out, coming from within the laboratory. Katarina stood there, held rigid by the sound. It was the wizard’s voice. And full of such rage and pain.
Images of Anton injured, even dead or dying, filled her mind. For an instant longer, she remained motionless. Then, as the scream ended, she sprang to the door. Anton might be fighting for his life. She had to get inside.
She put one hand on the massive bronze door knob; it was icy cold to the touch. She tried to turn it, first one way and then the other. It would not move. And the knob felt as if it were slightly warmer now, almost the same temperature as her body.
Using both hands this time, she tried again. Still the knob would not turn. Katarina could sense that it was resisting her pressure and its temperature was definitely increasing now: already it was unpleasantly hot. Her palms and fingers were beginning to hurt.
Calling out the words of an opening spell, she exerted all her strength. Still the knob was immovable. The heat rose, the pain in her hands was much greater now, it felt as if the skin were burning. Somehow she forced herself to hold onto the knob, straining to turn it, knowing that the only important thing was to get inside the laboratory, to help Anton.
The pain continued to worsen. But when she looked down at her hands, half expecting to see the skin burnt and saw to her astonishment that they were unmarked. Once again, she brought Anton’s image back into her mind and held it there. The pain wasn’t real, she told herself. Only the door was real.
Anton’s spell held for a moment longer, then the knob gave an almost human groan and slowly, reluctantly, the door swung open.
The room beyond gleamed with light. A ring of skulls was revolving slowly in the centre of the chamber. Each one floated in the air, suspended only by magic, its jaws opening and closing at intervals as if chanting a spell, but no sound emerged. The eye sockets were giving out a soft, bone-white radiance.
Katarina stared at the turning skulls for a moment, both horrified and fascinated. As they slowly swung past her, she found herself counting them: there were five.
Once Anton had spoken to her of the source of his great magic—he had talked of a mechanism, a reservoir—that allowed him to accumulate magical energy, to use whenever he needed. Was this grisly assemblage of skulls Anton’s secret? Could this be what powered his spells?
Chaos magic? No, she decided. Not Anton Freiwald. He was of the Rainbow College and was willing to use any and all of the colours of the magical spectrum. But not the undivided black of Chaos.
Then the memory of the scream finally returned to her and she called out, “Anton?”
There was no answer. Neither the wizard nor the assassin was in sight. Nothing moved except the skulls. The whole room was silent. The shifting light from the eye-sockets reflected off the contents of jars and vials that lined the left-hand wall, producing shafts of rainbow light. A faint sulphurous odour hung in the air.
Across the room from her, half hidden behind a curtain, a door stood ajar. Beyond, she could see cold stone. A tunnel, leading out of the chamber, perhaps to the city above. Had Anton taken it, perhaps pursued by the assassin?
She stepped forward and almost immediately saw a face. It was staring towards her from the opposite side of the room.
Again, she called out. She recognized the features now; they were Anton’s. But another step closer and she realized it was only a portrait of the wizard hanging on the far wall. Then, further to her right, half-hidden by shadow, she saw a dark shape sprawled in front of a wall lined with bookshelves. A human shape.
Katarina took a step towards the body. Anton? No, it was a man, but dressed completely in black: the assassin.
His eyes stared up at her through a fine grey mesh that covered his face. The lines were drawn so tightly that they had cut into the skin beneath. The man’s hands were clutching at the mesh in what must have been a last desperate attempt to rip it off.
When she heard the noise behind her she whirled around but it was only the familiar. It stood in the doorway for a moment, sniffing the air, its eyes searching. Then it ran forward on its thin legs and disappeared behind the large oaken desk on the other side of the room.
Katarina approached cautiously and peered over the desk at the creature. The familiar was squatting on a body. Anton’s body. Katarina knew the face immediately, even though the features were contorted by rage and pain. He was dead; a slim black-hilted dagger was buried in his heart. His robe and the brocaded carpet beneath it were soaked in blood.
But Katarina’s grief was buried by disgust for what the familiar was doing. The creature was bent over the body, its thin hands clutching at Anton’s tunic, its tiny mouth at the wizard’s throat.
Filled with loathing, Katarina reached for something—anything—to throw at it. As her fingers dosed on a flask that stood on the wizard’s desk, the familiar raised its head, flicked a glance at her, and bared its teeth in a snarl. Its lips were smeared with blood.
She hurled the flask with all her strength, and it struck the familiar on the side of its head. The creature toppled off Anton’s body to sprawl, limp and bleeding, beside its master.
Breathing hard, tears streaming down her face, Katarina stared down at Anton then, and waited for her grief to overwhelm her. Nothing mattered anymore. He was dead. How could she go on living without him?
The feeling that finally came was a ghost of the grief she had expected. Its lack of intensity astonished her. Anton Freiwald, the man she loved, the man who had meant more than her own life to her, was dead. Why did she only feel -regret?
Shocked, she turned to her memories, in search of something that would inspire some deeper feeling. Trying to remember the gratitude she had felt for him, the respect, the loyalty, the love.
Memories came, but they were blurred, wavering, as if reflected off moving water. Her father’s death, the debts she could not pay. And then Anton offering her his protection. Gratitude. She knew she should feel gratitude. And yet…
As she struggled to make everything come clear, something broke in her mind—rainbow light shimmered in the corners of her vision for a second and then was gone.
A spell, she realized. Someone had used a spell on her. Someone—Anton! He had clamped a magic shackle around her mind.
Her memories came into focus—to be seen from a stark new perspective. Her talent for magic was great, as her father had told her often enough. Anton had seen an opportunity to harness that talent for himself. He had come to her when she was vulnerable and put the shackle in place. All the lessons with him, the magic he had taught her, had been simply so that he might use her more effectively.
Feelings burst up from deep within her and churned through her mind. There was rage and hate and bitterness—and a sense of violation.
She had been his slave. Only that. Love him? How could she ever have believed that she had loved him? What she had felt in his arms had been a forgery. The memory of his hands on her body brought the taste of bile to her mouth.
“All the gods damn you, Anton!” she cried out. Her hands clenched, she stood above Anton Freiwald’s body, not touching it—unwilling to—but wanting to strike it, to hurt the wizard as he had hurt her.
Tears slid down her cheeks. She almost wanted him to live again so that she could kill him, and this time watch him die. Almost.
Then, a new thought came: free. She was free. Her mind was her own again, her body hers and hers alone. A feeling of joy went through her, grew until it was almost dizzying in its intensity. Free, she told herself again. And she was going to stay that way.
A glance at the ring of skulls and her new exhilaration faded. It was slowing, its light fading. Anton was dead, and his spells were dying with him. When the skulls stoppe
d completely, the spell-shield above would fail—and Gerhard Lehner would lead the graf’s soldiers down to the laboratory. All she could expect from them was torture and—eventually, death.
Swinging around, she found the tunnel that led away into darkness. The air that wafted out of it was dank and icy cold. It looked very old—perhaps it had been carved by dwarf engineers in the days of Waldenhof’s founding.
Anton had never intended to fight, Katarina knew then, only to escape. This tunnel was his secret escape route. Now it would be hers.
She started towards the tunnel—and then halted. Anton had told her of his grimoire, a listing of all the spells he had mastered, from every branch of the art, and drawing upon all the magic colours. It was somewhere here, Katarina was sure. If she could find it and take it with her, then she could continue her studies and slowly, patiently master the spells Anton had never intended to teach her.
The bookshelves that lined the right-hand wall from top to bottom and wall to wall caught her eye. Once she would have been fascinated by the wealth of knowledge the wizard had accumulated here, could have spent hours raptly studying them.
Now she thought only of the grimoire.
Books tumbled to the floor as she hunted for it. The grimoire was not among them.
The drawers of the desk came open easily. Inside were papers bearing magical signs and script in Anton’s precise hand. But again no sign of the grimoire.
The skulls were barely moving now, their light a dim glow. At any moment they would stop completely. Anton had hidden the grimoire too well. Perhaps she should run while she still had the chance.
No. She had suffered too much. It had to be somewhere down here and she would find it. Then her eyes chanced to return to the portrait on the wall and she felt a sudden sharp certainty.
“Come no further!” a voice called out as she took a step towards it.
The voice froze her, her fear returning in a sudden rush. She wanted to turn, to look at the wizard’s dead body. But her eyes were still on the portrait. Its thin lips were moving, its dark eyes flashing. “Come no closer, intruder. Or you die.”
The Laughter of Dark Gods Page 18
